


Seeking Vengeance, Finding Purpose

by 37bats



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Body dysmorphia (kind of), M/M, Sam goes full cyborg in this au, and is also alive, not super violent but better to be safe than sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-10-30 15:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37bats/pseuds/37bats
Summary: That was the thing that threw him off first; that pain. It wasn't the tinge of a sharp object pressed to flesh, it was the harsh scrape of rock against metal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyy I'm back after like 2 years of not posting anything. Now I like MGS. You know how it is.  
> I already have the first two chapters of this written and should probably plan out everything else before posting buuuuut I like diving into things with little to no preparation too much to actually do that.

When Sam woke up, bright desert sun temporarily blinding him till he adjusted to the afternoon light, his first thought was that things felt different. At first, he assumes this to be a dream—or perhaps the afterlife, as he recalls the blade running through his stomach—but the longer he laid there, the more uncomfortable the heat became, and the sharp rocks below his sprawled out body dug into him painfully. 

That was the thing that threw him off first; that pain. It wasn't the tinge of a sharp object pressed to flesh, it was the harsh scrape of rock against metal.

When the sluggishness finally wore off to a point where he could lift his right arm, he held it to the sky. It looked like he was still in his armor, the silver plating missing any old scratches, like it was buffered out. Or perhaps brand new. 

Sam touched his hand to his face and found it featureless. He couldn't remove his face mask, the mechanism seemingly broken. He ran his finger up further and only found one eye he could see through. In the middle of his face.

Panic began to set in, tensing his weakened muscles till they became sore. He needed to get up, move, find someone or something to tell him what he looked like. 

His visor helpfully pinged him a gas station 32 miles down the road. At least something was working in his favor. 

What felt like an hour passed before he could sit up, and some on-screen UI in his eyes (eye?) informed him of a motorcycle left out on the side of the road that looked suspiciously like his old one. 

His legs and torso seemed to still be armored as well, and it's a wonder how his body hasn't overheated in this weather. He shakily stood, legs feeling unused to walking. It reminds him of when he had first gotten his cyborg arm, the movement of it familiar but the signals sent from his brain foreign. 

He tried not to continue down that line of thought.

It took numerous stumblings, trippings, and nausea induced kneelings before he was able to make it to the bike. His UI informs him of the dangers of operating a vehicle in his state, and the absurdness of it makes him laugh.

He feels it in his throat, but not his mouth. The nausea kicks in again. Time to move on.

Ignoring the warnings from his screen, he sits on the dusty seat, gives it a quick once-over to make sure it’s actually functional (the UI again pops up to tell him it is), and turns the keys left in the ignition. It sputters for a moment, but eventually roars to life. The sound is probably the most comforting thing he's experienced today, and he's hit with a longing for his old bike, having gotten rid of it after being recruited into World Marshal. It reminds him of days long passed, of being free and full of vengeance.

It's difficult to get back into the swing of riding, but it comes to him soon enough. 

Endless dust and road passes him by, and the numbers indicating his distance from the gas stop slowly go down until he arrives in front of the tiny, rundown station. 

The look the man at the counter gives him is nothing less than terrified. His hand is already on the phone receiver by the time Sam can say, “Bathroom,” and his voice sounds clearer than how he feels.

The attendant slowly places the phone down, his hand travelling to an old and dirty key, all without taking his eyes off of Sam. The key is tossed to him, and he catches it easily. “Thank you,” Sam says in the most sincere voice he can manage. The man nods as Sam turns and heads outside to the separate door.

The dingy mirror certainly wouldn't do him any favors had he looked normal, but his current appearance was  _ beyond _ wrong. 

He was staring back at a full blown cyborg.

This body was familiar, one that was presented to him as a mere design years back. All Sam had gotten out of it was the arm. Seems the rest managed to join afterwards.

It was minutes of straining his mind to recall anything that had happened in between his pseudo-death and waking up not too long ago before he'd given up. There was no point in trying to remember what occurred that day, or week, or month. He doesn't know the date. Until it pings in the corner of his eye, that is. That fight was less than a month ago. 

Somebody, presumably Marshal scientists, had picked up his body and picked out parts one by one until he was a complete cyborg. How much human is still left in him, he wonders. Certainly the brain, possibly the spine. Unlikely that his eyes survived if they needed to replace them with this lens. The rest of his face was gone as well. Was his mind truly the only thing that had survived their experimentation? And why spend so much time building a high-tech body like this, only to leave it out in the Colorado Badlands?

The shattering of porcelain startled him from his thoughts, and he looked down to see the corners of the sink he had gripped were broken off in each of his hands. His strength had no doubt been enhanced beyond what it was before. His senses, too, as he's learning, as hurried footsteps and a confused call approach fast. 

He slips out the window unseen, surprised at his newfound agility. As he runs back out to his bike, he hears the bemoaned cry of a man who now has to have his only sink replaced.

Sam considers it a favor to future patrons, as they now don't have to wash their hands in something grimier than the toilet.

He speeds off, no destination in mind, and no waypoint directing him where to go. 

Vengeance is the one thing that returns to him from years ago, and he decides to let that lead him to his future path.


	2. Chapter 2

What Sam wouldn't give to have an Intel unit at his disposal again. He had forgotten how boring seeking information was, and how repetitive dead ends could be.

Traces of a certain white haired cyborg had been found and lost just as easily, but he was getting closer. Every step was made in the right direction. More and more dots connected, more strangled confessions that point him forwards. Soon he'll see Raiden again. Clash blades with Jack the Ripper.

If only he had Murasama back, that would make the exchange even greater.

But, perhaps that isn't what he wanted, a voice in the back of his mind said. A best two out of three, for what? Honor? Pride? No, he wants to fight just to fight. Feeling the adrenaline rush through his veins and bloodlust his only state of mind, that's what he wanted, and not just as a one time thing. He wanted it over and over again, not to die, not to kill, but to fight. He wanted to meet the devil for a sparring match.

There was another trail he was on, this one the most promising of them all. Despite Raiden having left Maverick, he still occasionally received intel from them under the table. He was able to trace the source of it, choke it out of the man, and head to the designated area where some unsavory folks with too much ammunition were held up in a warehouse before Raiden was to arrive.

As much as he loved slicing through numerous untrained cyborgs, their bulky bodies weak, yet still satisfying to cut, he wished for a challenge. One he would hopefully get soon enough.

1600 hours rolls by, and he's perched on a crate of weapons of possible mass destruction, swinging the leg that wasn't tucked under his body. Blood coated the floors, walls, even parts of the ceiling in some places, but the stench didn't bother him like it used to.

Many of his senses have been sharpened, but they all mostly meld together into one sort of feeling. He can't differentiate between the gunpowder, steel, and blood. It's all just a _smell_. Sam isn't sure if it's because technology hasn't caught up to the small intricacies of the human body, or the nanomachines inside him suppress most sensation.

The only things he could really make out anymore were sounds and sights. The distinct soft clicking of heels on concrete caught his attention immediately, and he couldn't keep down the giddy feeling inside him. If he had a mouth, it would be grinning.

He jumps down from the crates, feet thudding on the floor loud enough to alert anyone in the building. The footsteps stopped all together, and then quickly shuffled behind a crate. Sam considered calling out, but decided the surprise was well worth the wait.

Feet continued to scuttle across the floor, on top of containers till they was to the left of, then behind Sam. He stood, back exposed but standing proudly. Waiting. Waiting.

He quick drew his sword, turning just in time for it to clang against another blade, one colored a familiar, bloody red. The giddiness rises.

Raiden jumps back, defensive, eyes on Sam but still taking in the scene around him. He says no words but his expression tells Sam everything. Cautious, tense, and always filled with that bubbling anger he started to miss. This time, though, there was something that set this Raiden apart from the one he knew years ago. More confidence in his stance, but not cocky in the slightest. He knows his own power (they both do) and he isn't afraid to hide it.

“So what, they deploy a new cyborg to this place and it happens to be their downfall?” Raiden asks with a smirk.

Sam says nothing, really taking in this new version of Raiden. Not only has his demeanor changed, but his appearance as well. Artificial skin covered his jaw now, his once wild hair tamed and hanging down the sides of his face, and what do you know, he got that eye of his replaced as well.

Raiden snorts, no longer waiting for a response. “Fine. Doesn't matter, ‘cause you'll be just like them in a minute.”

But oh if that newfound confidence doesn't make something inside Sam twinge just a little. He charges, divets in the concrete where his feet were. Raiden is ready with Murasama, blocking his heavy blow, buckling beneath the weight. They clash together like two beasts in a battle for dominance. He swipes again, another hit blocked easily. The HF blade Sam has is by no means weak, but he knows Murasama's strength, knows what it could be like, is like, coupled with Raidens’, and knows it is no fair match. That doesn't stop him from continuing his onslaught, backing off and charging again to throw Raiden off his game, even if for just a moment. The two rage against each other for who knows how long, locking blades once again, and locking sights on each other. “Funny,” Sam finally says, “didn't you say this would only take a minute?”

Raiden snarls and pushes back, throwing him off with unexpected strength. Sam stumbles back, sword flying out of his hand and skittering across the concrete. What a familiar scene.

To continue the reenactment of this skit, he spreads his arms outward and tilts his head as an invitation. _Come on_ , his body says, _let's see if this song and dance finishes the way it did last time_. Raiden doesn't take the bait immediately, instead taking a few steps back. For a few tense seconds, nobody moved. Then, at the same time that Sam took a step forward, Raiden rushed him. It was not a smart move.

Sam quickly dodges out of the way and grabs his arm and torso, tossing him across the warehouse. Not on purpose, exactly, he still isn't used to his own strength, but it's satisfying to see Raiden fly across the room and crash into a shipping container. The sizable dent left behind is just the cherry on top.

Now with cyborg enhancements, Sam is essentially an unstoppable force of technology. He's stronger, faster, and all the emotion suppressors in him make killing seem like scratching an itch, as opposed to an old Sunday chore.

Perhaps he could be the one to send Raiden to his well deserved grave, like he was years ago. His heart races at the thought, finally being able to enact revenge on at least _one_ person who has taken his body away from him. It's not enough that Raiden used Murasama to kill Armstrong. Just because that sword is an extension of him means nothing. It's not Sam thrusting the blase into that bastards heart, it's not Sam tearing apart those scientists limb from limb. Whatever this desire of vengeance, of spilling the blood of everyone who has made him the way he is now, it is much greater than the feelings of his younger self. To keep his family alive in his memory, to take away the memories of their deaths from those who witnessed, caused it, forcibly.

Is this the anger that dwells within Raiden? If so, it's as thrilling as it is terrifying.

Sam decides to not pick up his sword, instead facing Raiden hand to blade. Raiden removes himself from the metal and charges again, more watchful this time. Careful of his every move. Not careful enough, though, as he's again grabbed by a quick flurry of hands. He hears a crack as body meets concrete, unsure if it's Raiden's armor or the floor.

“Well?” Sam stands tall over the crumpled form, watchful of the tremors wracking through Raiden. “Any last words?”

Raiden tilts his head up, red lighting his irises. “Fuck you,” he wheezes out, grabbing Sam's ankle like a flash and dragging him down to the floor as well. Sam is dazed for a brief moment, but next thing he knows, he's pinned beneath Raiden. He's wearing a smirk, and his voice is ragged as he grits out, “What about you? Any last words?”

Sam stares up, glances to Raiden's hand as it reaches back to where Murasama lay, and laughs heartily.

Raiden places the blade at his throat. “That's it?” He asks confused, with a hint of humor in his voice. “Fine. If that's all then-”

“Think you can actually kill me this time?” Sam says.

“‘This time?’”

Sam laughs again, and the sword presses a little heavier against his neck. “Explain yourself.”

“Back then, we didn't have the luxury to explain our motives,” Sam watches confusion twist Raiden's expression. “We simply fought, one on one, opposite sides, good and bad.”

Sam glances along the red length of Murasama, “How well does that sword suit you? She was once so bloodthirsty. Do you feed her, or does she starve under your care?”

“Quit talking nonsense!” Raiden snarls. Sam feels the sensation of the blade cutting into him slowly, wire by wire. “I said explain yourself, and if you don't I'll kill you right now.”

“Would you kill me if you didn't like the truth?”

“Maybe,” he says, “guess we'll just have to find out.”

Sam laughs again. It sounds a bit staticky this time. “I suppose we will.”

Sam clears his throat, despite not having any reason to. “It is no surprise you do not recognize me,” he starts, “I've certainly changed quite a bit since we last met. I had less cybernetic enhancements that time. And more hair.”

Raiden squints, trying to dig out meaning from Sam's vague words. “Just spit it out, who are you?”

“Ah, I just had a thought,” he says, purposefully ignoring Raiden's growing impatience, “I'd like to ask you a question, it shouldn't be too hard for you to answer.”

“I'm the one asking-”

“How is Wolfie doing?”

Raiden freezes overhead, jumps up and back, “Who- how the hell- no. Fucking bullshit.You're just some unregistered cyborg. Jetstream Sam is dead.”

“Jetstream Sam may be, yes,” Sam sits up rubbing at his open throat. There is a large amount of blood spilling out of him, but his systems aren't in the red yet, so he'll deal with it later. “Samuel Rodriguez, though? Perhaps not so much.”

“You- _he_ \- was stabbed through the fucking stomach. No way someone mostly human could survive that. Who are you really?”

“I suppose I should take it as a good sign that I'm not dead yet, no?”

“Who sent you?”

“You won't get anywhere asking questions like that, you know,” Sam sighs. He had a feeling that getting to this point would have them running circles around each other, both unreasonable to the others demands. Raiden because of his disbelief, Sam because he was just an asshole.

Raiden scrutinizes him. “Say you're telling the truth,” he asks slightly more calm this time, “What happened to you?”

“There we go, we're on a much better path now.” Sam's visor begins flashing a caution in the corners of his vision. Seems as if 'later’ wasn't as far in the future as he thought it would be. “Let's make a deal. I'll answer all your questions as long as you give me some Nanopaste. A dead man can't speak, after all.”

“So you say,” Raiden huffs, but tosses him a pack of paste anyway, “Any funny moves and your head is mine”

Sam smears the paste over his wound, and feels to immediate effect. The warnings stop and his surroundings are no longer tinted yellow-orange. “Scientists, from World Marshal. Before it was shut down. I don't know why, but I'm guessing they really wanted to test out this body they built for me years back, before I refused full cyborgification.”

“It's been two years since that incident, why did you only just now decide to come find me? And why fight if you wanted to talk?”

“Well, Raiden, I don't want to inflate your ego or anything,” he says, Raiden glaring at him, “but you were very difficult to track down. It took me a year to… coexist with this body of mine, and another to seek you out.”

“And the fighting?”

Sam puffs out his chest, a facsimile of a grin, “Don't tell me you didn't have fun? I thought it was a good sparring match, to get the blood flowing.”

Raiden snorts, looking at the ground around Sam's feet, “It certainly did flow alright.” Then his expression tightens, suddenly aware that he let his guard drop. “You're enough of an annoyance to be Sam, so you're either telling the truth, or you're a very well developed AI.

“Why did you come find me?”

There was the question Sam had been waiting for, from the very beginning. “I have two requests,” he says. “One: I would like Murasama returned to me, returned to her owner.”

“Later. Maybe,” Raiden sheaths said blade, keeps a hold on the pommel, “and the other?”

“Let me fight alongside you.”

Raiden does not believe him, even going so far as to laugh sarcastically. “Alongside me? How am I supposed to trust you?”

“If my intention was to kill you I would have done so already,” he says to Raiden's sneer. “Listen to me, Raiden. Jack. I will be honest with you: I have nothing left. To lose, to gain, to go back to, to wait for; nothing. But you, I saw something within you when we fought. Your ideals are lofty, your beliefs unrealistic, but in the end you had still won the fight.”

Raiden's decision to show mercy and compassion towards those who dwell in the darkest alleys, instead of striking them down where they stand is a ridiculous notion and the only reason Sam isn't lying dead beside all the other cyborgs in this place.

Is it his fate to always follow the next man in line to kill him, on and on until he's not even his own person, but a drone following every order? First with Armstrong, now the man standing in front of him.

This time, though, it's his own decision. He's not given the option to “join, or die.” He sought out Raiden not to lose a battle and his purpose, but to find something else. Dig for reason in a desert with no map. Go back to that man he used to be.

“Perhaps that samurai obsession of yours has its place in the world. I'd like to see what it is capable of.” Sam hold out his hand, palm up and open.

“It's not an 'obsession,’” Raiden cuts in quickly. “And I work alone now. No room for turncoats or dead men.”

He curls his fingers back and pulls away. “I am not asking you to decide right now. But think about the powerful ally you may be losing here,” he turns and ambles over to his forgotten sword picking it up and sheathing it. “If you happen to change your mind, I will be in town for the next few weeks. You can contact me by codec. My frequency is 144.01.”

Sam exits the warehouse and heads back in the direction of the old abandoned buildings he'd been hiding out in. Nothing he can do now except wait and avoid detection.

Three weeks in, at 5:42 in the morning, his codec rings.

“Meet me at the bridge by Grenfaire Park at midnight tonight,” the voice says curtly, then hangs up.

Took him long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably won't be able to start writing chapter 3 until spring break because midterms are kicking my asssss. Thanks for reading though, I appreciate it


End file.
